Servitude to Stockholm
by Manwathiel
Summary: A prisoner wasn't supposed to look forward to seeing her jailer, especially when biting words and 'accidental' bruises were his way of denying that he looked forward to seeing her, too. AxelNamine. Oneshot.


**LULZ MICRO-STORY. **

**I'm… not quite sure what this is. An AkuNami, of course, but it's different. The idea was better in my head. Not much of a story, but sort of an overview maybe? I don't know. Read and find out. :) **

**If there are any mistakes, I apologize. This story is so craptastic that I didn't even send it to my beta (the lovely Schmelly Inc. OMG I LOFF YOU ::stalker grin:: ). Besides, I work her too much and keep her from creating her MAGIC. ::omg confetti and sparkles::**

**Anywho. **

**Obligatory and Unnecessary Disclaimer: Duh. **

**XXXXX**

Servitude to Stockholm

A prisoner wasn't supposed to feel secure with her jailer, especially when she couldn't technically feel anything at all. She should have feared him, avoided him at all costs; not secretly looked forward to his visits so that she could admire the fire behind peridot eyes and feel the warm shiver creep down her spine every time he glanced her way or parted his pale lips to speak. Every time she thought to smile at a comment he made, she should have been overwhelmed by the memory of the abuse that she suffered under his hand and tongue, no matter how thickly that comment was laced with sugary sweet nectar and false truths. Her eyes had no right to linger on him when he stretched his feline body across a too-short couch, unaware of his audience because she was supposed to be corrupting the memories of an innocent boy that tried fill the shoes of a hero and pretending to be the helpless little witch with thin hair and dead eyes. It was just a little something extra that she could add to her lengthy list of why she was bad and why she was fake and why she needed to _escape_ from this prison in Stockholm.

A captor wasn't supposed to want to set free his hostage, especially when doing so would put his own nonexistence in jeopardy. He knew that it was a mistake in talking to her, forming a mockery of a relationship, _sympathizing_ with her plight. All of this was such a mistake that he went to extreme measures to crush any hope of escape that she may harbor within her mind; a smart slap across the face when she'd smile, a swift kick behind her knees that forced her to collapse on the marble floor, and a malicious remark that hurt her more than any physical act ever could. But then he was back the next day with a brand new box of crayons- twenty four count, this time, and some of them are the glitter kind-and half a bar of chocolate that he didn't finish and wouldn't share with anyone else but her. Then, after she'd accepted the apology that they both knew he'd go back on later, he'd watch her when she'd watch him and think that he didn't notice. He took pleasure in her eyes roaming his body so overtly. It reassured him that he could hurt the little witch as much as he wanted and she would continue to forgive him. He encouraged it by showing himself to her, allowing her to drink in what she could not touch, just to make her time in Stockholm just a bit more sweet and just a bit more bitter.

So what happens when the roles reverse?

He is as much a captor as he is a hostage, and she is as much a prisoner as she is a jailer. The smile that he hates and loves ghosts across her face and he wants to smack it and touch it when he gets that jump in his chest because it reminds him of what he lost and why he smiles back.

"_Thank you," She says, beaming, as she takes the fresh sketchbook in her hands as a symbol of her forgiveness and he stares at the blue and purple bruise swelling beneath her eye. _

"_Anything for you." _

And then he would let her touch him because looking is never enough after a while of suppressing what shouldn't be thought. A giggle would bubble past her lips when he would lean his head over the back of the couch and let her stand behind him and play with his hair, run her fingers through the crimson spikes, and marvel how they always came back together. The giggle would become a timid titter when she accidentally touched the sensitive spot behind his right ear and he would purr softly like the cat she thought he was and he knew it was an accident only the first time because every time after she would be sure to brush that spot right when he was about to tell her to leave him alone. He loved her for it and hated himself for it because _he_ was the captor, damn it, and he wasn't supposed to be allured by a hostage.

A gleeful grin would curve her lips when he finally acknowledged her with a knowing smirk that creased the twin tattoos and he motioned for her to take a break so he wouldn't seem quite so bad. But she was certain that her excitement and anxiety showed in her gentle ministrations, even when she touched the place that made him sink deeper and deeper into the cushions. She liked his reaction and she hated it because, now that she had discovered it, she was afraid that he would expect it and if she failed to deliver then the roles would be reversed again and she would be on the floor, battered and bruised. But at least she would get a gift the next day.

"_Do you like that?" She laughs when he leans into the feel of her fingers teasing behind his ear. He reaches up and holds her hand there and she flinches against the heat of his skin._

"_Like you wouldn't believe." _

The roles cannot reach equilibrium. Reversing is difficult enough to tolerate. Equality is unheard of.

The mumbling and giggling and brushing would become tasting and gasping and caressing. He didn't make her feel uncomfortable or embarrassed, but she couldn't look at the peridot eyes when he pulled her close to his chest so she could listen to the hollow echoes within. The hand dancing down her arm froze her nonbeing and thawed it again, over and over with each soothing stroke, but then it bit her when she tried to place it behind her and she never did it again. His body was allowed to cover hers, to press it to the cushions and secure it below him, but she could not crawl up beside him while he reclined on his back and press her cheek against his chest and wrap her arms around his shoulders. If he didn't immediately roll to his belly and pin her beneath him, he would scowl and ignore her or simply push her to the floor. That was the most common of responses, but she would always try again because five minutes is enough time for him to change his mind and allow her to lay with him, even if it did take a long time and a couple knocks on her hip to convince him. When she was finally given the privilege, the feel of his hot mouth on her neck and lips brought about disgusted and delighted shivers that traveled her body and she often wondered why she even sought his attention when she would feel terrible once he left.

He hated touching her just as much as he reveled in it because he only did it to convince himself that he was in control, not her. He didn't want to use this tactic to show his dominance over her, but he couldn't use the other. He didn't want to be like the other guards, even if sometimes his temper slipped or she pressed him too far and it couldn't be helped. But he learned that it would be easier this way because it was what she wanted. He was her keeper, but still more of a companion than the others ever could have been. She had what she wanted, but he would always be sure to dictate when she received it and how she received it. There was little more that he wanted than to have her fingers brush his eternally blistering skin and feel the coolness that everyone else was fortunate enough to possess, but he was afraid that she would become the master without him being aware of it. He couldn't allow her to grow or strengthen or hope. So he humored her, pleasured her when he was feeling particularly gracious, and he tried to ignore the twisting in his gut that told him he was doing it for more than just her.

"_I'm tired," She whispers breathlessly against his shoulder and her fingers dig into the leather of his coat. He bites his lips and buries his face into the shallow crook of her neck, praying that she will tangle her hands in his hair but knowing that he will have to slap her away if she does._

"_Just… a little longer." _

When the prisoner finally escapes her jailer and the captor reluctantly sets free his hostage, every decision and every thought is directed to returning to a place they so desperately tried to escape. They would find no love there, as they never found any to begin with and they wouldn't have known it if they did, but because both were victims to a cause that they understood and hated. A shared experience called two beings with no purpose onto a shadowed path that dipped and crossed and joined and finally brought a suddenly unwanted liberation from the prison in Stockholm.

**XXXXX**

**I don't think this even deserves a 'ta-da'. Is it weird that I was inspired to write this by one of those awesome Clorox Bleach commercials? Probably… sigh. Anyway, hope you at least enjoyed it somewhat. And I want to believe that I don't have to say this, but I will anyway, just in case: no, this does not take place in Sweden. If I just destroyed any sense of understanding (or lack thereof) that you had for this story, I suggest a visit to Google. **

**I currently have bigger and better things in the works, so expect to see something of quality maybe sometime soon.**

**Anyway. Reviews are welcome and encouraged. Flames will be used for Axel's enjoyment. Thanks for reading.**

**Note: The focus of this story does not reflect the views of the author or her affiliates, lolwhut. **

**Until Next Time,  
Manwathiel**


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